


stop, drop, roll

by laserbeamer (disequilibrium)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Love Triangles, M/M, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disequilibrium/pseuds/laserbeamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry always falls hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stop, drop, roll

**Author's Note:**

> Something kind of metaphorical, I dunno. Originally posted on tumblr under nialljustgotwet and the title 'The Fire'. Also posted on livejournal under laserbeamer.

Harry always knew just where his heart belonged. Only now, fingers digging into the fabric of a familiar jumper, head buried against a familiar chest, he’s beginning to think that maybe he was wrong.

He remembers Niall was like the sun: a dazzling, blinding ball of unimaginable energy, sizzling forever toward some inevitable explosion of light and sound; dangerous and unpredictable, and all Harry wanted to do was get closer. He wanted to feel the scorch, the heat; like a moth to a flame he was drawn, hypnotized, mesmerized, and the more the space between them dwindled, the more he wanted it to not be there at all. He wanted to reach out and touch the impossible and spontaneously combust in all its glory and beauty.

Liam called him a lovesick puppy.

Harry thought it was more than that.

Harry thought that this must be actual love, because what else could ignite him so horribly? What else could consume his every thought, his every movement, his every purpose? Harry asked this of Liam, but Liam only scoffed and told him to stop waving his fork around like a hooligan and to finish his lunch. Liam didn’t know a thing about love, Harry decided; Liam had never been in it.

The thing about Harry is this: when he falls, he falls hard. He falls wholly and completely. He takes everything that he is and he throws it into the fire and he clings only to the hope that, maybe this time, he won’t get burned. But he always does; he always has, and he always will. Until the flames lick back to their embers, and the wind gathers the ashes and scatters them to the dust – poor, tragic Harry, his face edged in gold, offering a heart that’s just too big to hold.

“He asked me to be his partner for our chemistry experiment.”

Harry says it like it’s some great triumph, and Liam rolls his eyes. But, if Harry notices, he doesn’t let on; he just picks up half a sandwich and bites into it, continuing with a mouth full of ham and cheese:

“It’s not like I’m good at chemistry, either. He must like me.”

“If you say so.” You can’t argue with logic like that, so Liam doesn’t even bother. When Harry wants something this bad, he damn well isn’t going to take any cautionary advice into consideration. When Harry wants something this bad, he won’t stop until he gets it.

He’s stacking the wood. He’s lighting the match.

Liam catches a whiff of smoke.

The thing about Liam is this: he understands it: the relentless optimism, the leaping into the flames… and the blindness to the dangers of such actions. In fact, Liam wishes he was brave enough to do what Harry does - to bear his heart to the world, to go rushing in without fear. To brace himself and take the pain until somebody else comes along and saves him from his own stupidity. But it’s too late, now. He’s missed his chance; missed it as soon as Harry pointed out how Niall’s eyes were “so bright, and blue, and clear, and happy, and perfect...” If that isn’t infatuation, Liam doesn’t know what is and, as much as he would like to, he can’t bring himself to rip Harry away from the warmth of that feeling.

He sees Harry and Niall with their heads bowed together in the library, pens scribbling furiously across paper, muttering to each other in quiet tones. Harry’s cheeks have a light blush to them, his eyes glitter forest green, and the corner of his lip is trapped in a perpetual smile. He is happy and content, because he is winning.

And the more Harry wins, the more Liam loses.

“Hey, Liam, I hope you don’t mind, but –” Harry pauses, his eyes darting conspiratorially across the crowded hallway as he leans closer to the other boy, “Niall invited me over after school. So I can’t walk home with you today.”

Liam raises an eyebrow, shoving a textbook into his locker.

“Didn’t you finish your chemistry thing last week, though?”

Harry nods, eyes sparkling – and today, they’re a deep, ocean turquoise, but that doesn’t stop the dry wood from catching or the fire from bursting suddenly to life.

“Yeah.”

Then, he grins so hard that Liam’s afraid his lips will stretch right to his ears, and there’s an edge of glee to his voice when he adds:

“Yeah. I think we’re friends now.”

The victory of those words is clear: friends today, more tomorrow. It’s how Harry operates. For him, friendship is a stepping stone on the way to greater things, and nothing can stop him now that he’s made it this far.

So Liam opens his mouth to congratulate Harry on his success. But, just as he does, he realizes Harry has turned his million-watt smile away, and a second later Liam can feel the presence of someone joining them. He glances back; straight into the laughing eyes of Niall Horan.

“Hey, Harry,” the greeting is relaxed, confident. For a moment, Niall’s gaze flickers to Liam – an acknowledgement of his presence, and maybe there’s a hint of fleeting curiosity – but then it’s all Harry again, and Liam can’t help but feel like he’s interrupting something vastly intimate as the two boys grin at each other.

“Hey,” Harry replies. Liam winces at the eagerness of his voice, the breathless undercurrent of excitement upon which it rides. But, if Niall notices, he doesn’t show it; he’s still got a soft, easy smile on his face, like he’s just happy to be here.

“You ready to go?” he asks, thumbs hooking under the straps of his backpack. Liam decides he’s a bit like a child with an old soul, trapped in a teenager’s body. It’s strange, but true; Niall seems almost timeless. The boyish roundness of his face and general disposition of a kid who can’t sit still is offset by the distant intelligence in his eyes. Everything about him is delicate, but you can see – in the way he holds himself – that he is strong. And Liam can also see why he would like Harry: haphazardly thoughtful Harry – brilliant, intoxicating Harry. Harry, with the corkscrew twists of his chocolate curls, and the twin dimples on either side of his Cheshire cat grin, and the straight teeth that are just a bit uneven, and the blue-green, ever-changing eyes that never stop laughing, even when all is silent and his mouth is shut tight and he’s staring out the window at the blur of rain against a grey winter.

“Yup,” Harry gives Liam a nod, and turns away. But Niall pauses to give Liam his own, special half-smile.

“See ya later, –” he stops, as if realizing he doesn’t know the name of Harry’s friend. And why should he? Liam isn’t particularly memorable; he’s all muddy, brown eyes and a mop of dull, brown hair. His nose is too big – so are his lips, for that matter – and the only things he’s got going for him are a honey bear smile and a calm, sensible nature and a healthy sense of humor… and that hardly makes him worth the trouble.

“Liam,” he mutters, and Niall nods, cheeks flushing prettily at the awkwardness of the moment.

“Yeah, Liam,” he mumbles in reply, and then he’s back at Harry’s side.

The last Liam hears of them is a twin laugh echoing down the hall, floating effortlessly over the chatter of the other students; a sound that makes him feel simultaneously elated and morose with its debilitating beauty. It’s the laugh, he thinks, of two people who have been bound together by the thread of fate. It is the laugh of the lucky few who have followed that thread to each other.

The thing about friendship is this: it’s the second kind of love. The first is the feeling a mother gets when she holds her newborn child, or a father gets when he watches his kid score the winning goal in a junior league football championship. It’s a natural, inherent love between families – and, in textbook cases, the strongest kind. The third is the feeling of wanting to drink in every part of a person, of wanting to capture them and set them free all at once – of wanting to drag them with you on all the twists and turns of life. The third is love love, and it’s what brings people together, and what causes them to brim over with happiness and make promises they can keep. And it may seem like love love should be the second kind, because certainly it is stronger than friendship. But the truth is, love love cannot exist without friendship, and so friendship settles neatly between the first and the third kind, and bleeds over into both:

As Edna Buchanan said: “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.”

Harry chose Liam a long time ago, and Liam (he’s always surprised when he realizes he did have a say in all of it) chose Harry.

As Jeremy Taylor said: “Love is friendship set on fire.”

Whether Niall knows it or not, Harry has already held a match to their friendship, already has the fire burning brightly, stretching its orange-tinged arms toward the evening sky. It’s eating up all the fuel it’s been given. It’s craving more.

And Harry is close – too close – and Liam can only watch.

“I’m going to tell him.”

Liam chokes on his apple. Half because he didn’t even notice Harry standing there, half because it’s only been a few weeks and this sounds like a disaster in the making.

“Are you sure?” he asks, as Harry drops his tray onto the table and sits down, stabbing at his pasta with a fork.

“Yup.”

He shoves the noodles into his mouth, chewing happily, his mind made up. Liam isn’t so certain.

“What if it ruins everything, though?”

Harry smiles as he replies:

“How can it? I’ve never met anyone like him, Liam. This is meant to be – I can feel it.”

Liam doesn’t understand how Harry can be so sure, and so unconcerned about the magnitude of this decision. Liam doesn’t understand how he isn’t worried about crumbling the tentative, new friendship he’s built with the boy from Chemistry class; Liam doesn’t understand how, with the way Harry looks at Niall, he could ever be so careless as to risk it all just because he’s getting impatient.

“I’m just saying, maybe it would be better if you waited a while longer; if you got to know each other more, if you… warmed him up to the idea –” Liam begins, but Harry cuts him off, waving his fork around to emphasize his point.

“If, if, if. Liam, life is full of ‘if’s. ‘If I only,’ ‘If I just.’ ‘What if.’ Personally, I don’t see the point in them – in ‘if’s. I like him. He probably likes me. Why can’t it be that easy?”

Liam’s silent for a moment, mouth working over words he can’t say. For someone who looks so carefully at the world, sometimes Harry can be downright simple. But, when Liam peers closer, he sees the anxious spark in Harry’s eye, and the nerves flitting and bouncing beneath the mask of calm. Harry’s about to jump, again – into that fire that touches the sky. He knows what the risks are, but there’s something so hypnotic about the white-hot center, about the way the crackle of it calls to him. He wants to touch it, he wants the roar of the flames to surround him. He doesn’t just want to sit on the edges and enjoy the warmth, and then go back to a cold bed and mute silence. And Liam doesn’t want him to, either. Because Liam knows how lonely it is to do that; to choose unhappy safety over the jubilant danger of the flames. So he swallows whatever words he was gathering to dissuade Harry, and shrugs instead, turning back to his apple.

“Okay,” his gaze flickers to the other boy for the briefest of moments, all traces of disapproval hidden away, “good luck.”

Harry nods in thanks.

They finish their meal in silence.

Harry’s done it. He’s leapt into the middle of it all. And, for a split second he thinks he’s finally managed it without being burned alive. There is nothing but a pleasant fury surrounding him when he looks into Niall’s eyes, when he explains this thing-that-could-be-love; a fury that won’t touch him so long as he’s got the blonde boy by his side.

He couldn’t help it, really – falling for him. Niall’s got this way of lighting up a room, of making people laugh without looking like he’s trying too hard. And, when Harry does something stupid (like spill acid across the desk in Chemistry or trip over nothing in the hallway) Niall can barely contain his amusement. In fact, Harry’s almost glad to have made a fool of himself, just for the chance to hear Niall’s uncontrollable giggle and see his whole face crinkle with happiness. When they’re alone, it feels like they can talk about anything, like they can do anything. With Niall, there is no limit. The world and the sky and the stars are theirs; all of the suns in the universe are theirs; they were meant to join forces and conquer everything and race off into a great tomorrow on a happily ever after. Harry has never felt more connected to a person than he feels to Niall, and as he explains all of this to the boy in question, his eyes glow with the light of the flames that no longer scorch his skin.

Harry feels himself teetering on the edge of success.

The thing about Niall is this: he’s straight. Completely, and irrevocably, straight. He tries to let Harry down easy, but Harry doesn’t do easy; instead, he finds himself tearing away from Niall’s grip and running out into the night. He doesn’t know where he’s going, at first, but his feet seem to, so he lets them lead. After a while, it becomes clear that they’re carrying toward the only thing that’s never caused him pain; toward the only thing that’s ever been able to pull him from the all-consuming flames, and the gasping for oxygen, and the lungs full of smoke, and the sting of ash in his eyes.

It’s late when Liam’s mum taps on his door and tells him he’s ‘got company.’ He finds it strange, because she usually won’t let anyone in past nine, but when he sees the swollen redness of Harry’s eyes and the way his whole face is splotched white and pink, it all makes sense. Wordlessly, the curly-haired boy slips through the doorway, whispering a “thanks” to Mrs. Payne. As soon as she leaves, he collapses into Liam’s arms. Fresh tears squeeze past his eyelids, and fresh sobs rip through his throat. Liam only holds him tight, just like he always does; one arm wrapped around the shaking torso, the other hand tangled through his curls, muttering “shh” into the top of his head. He feels Harry’s fingers dig into the fabric of his jumper, feels him burrow his head further against his chest. He hugs him until the sobs stop wracking his body, and listens as Harry begins to mumble what happened: “he looked at me, he just looked at me, and he said he liked me but – but he wasn’t gay.”

And Liam doesn’t say a thing. He only pulls away and watches as Harry readjusts himself, curling into Liam’s lap like a long-limbed, oversized kitten. He twists a finger around one of Harry’s curls, giving it a soft tug, and then does the same to another. Harry sniffles softly. Eventually, he turns to look up at Liam, eyes still glassy with unshed tears.

“Why couldn’t he like me?”

It’s a question Liam doesn’t have an answer for, so he only smiles sadly, reaching to trace a thumb along Harry’s salt-stained cheek.

“People can’t help who they like and don’t like.”

There’s a flicker of understanding in Harry’s expression – a sign of impending calm – but the hurt is still there.

“Why do I always find the ones who don’t like me?” he asks, and it breaks Liam’s heart to see his lips pulled into such an unhappy frown.

“I guess you can’t help that, either.”

And still, Liam wears an expression of soft sadness. Harry’s looking more carefully, now, seeing the concern in his chestnut eyes, the sympathetic set of his jaw – the way he’s staring at Harry like he only wants to put him back together.

How many fires has Harry jumped into? How many bright, burning suns has he found to light up his sky? And how many times has he been rewarded only with charcoaled skin and the black of night? It all seems a bit silly, now; this need to be swallowed up by flames that don’t want him. It’s a wonder he isn’t dead, yet.

Or is it?

Really, it’s no wonder at all. Because, when he’s laying there in the middle of the flames, writhing in pain, screaming out for someone to save him lest he burn up entirely, he knows it’s only a matter of time before an ash-grimed, sweat-trickled face bursts into sight, before glove-clad hands grab him and haul him against a fire-retardant jacket, before he finds himself being carried away from heat and into cool-aired safety by a doe-eyed fireman.

As Liam’s fingers tangle further into his hair, Harry grips his shoulder, pulling himself up against the familiar chest. Liam’s eyeing him – eyeing the way he suddenly doesn’t seem unhappy any more, the way his brow is creased with determination, they way his lips have pulled into a thoughtful pout. He pauses, staring uncertainly at his friend.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

But Harry doesn’t answer.

Harry only smiles

And jumps into the fire one last time.


End file.
